


Say My Name

by Slow_Burn_Sally



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: AU Where Henry Lascelles Is Just A Twat And Not A Sociopathic Murderer, Alternate Universe - Pride and Prejudice Fusion, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, BAMF!Childermass, Class Differences, Longing, M/M, Medium Slow Burn, Pining, Regency Romance Tropes, Soft!Lascelles, marriage proposals, minor smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:00:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28846434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/pseuds/Slow_Burn_Sally
Summary: No one knows why some people have soulmates and others do not. It is a thing that has always been, and it is not swayed, nor is it changed by religion or science, or even by magic. Once your soulmate is revealed to you, you will either join together with them in the union of marriage, (or whatever union you both can manage if marriage is not available or desired). Or, if you choose to do so, ignore them, and spend a life feeling hollow, empty and unfulfilled.
Relationships: John Childermass/Henry Lascelles
Comments: 9
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Matter of Address](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28270272) by [Ilthit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilthit/pseuds/Ilthit). 



> This fic is the direct result of Ilthit's A Matter of Address. It's fantastic! READ IT. And it got my brain going.
> 
> This was not beta read

Henry Lascelles is a sensible man. He pays his servants well enough. He keeps up to date on the news of the day, political and social. Keeps an ear to the ground to detect the sometimes minute changes in the ever shifting tides of polite society and the whims of London’s elite.

He’s a rational man. Not prone to hysteria, nor to the excesses of extreme temperament. He keeps calm and cool and collected at all times. 

Until of course he is in the presence of Mr. Norrell’s servant Childermass. Yes there are times when Lascelles has lost his temper before. Has been rubbed the wrong way by a few characters, here and there. He’s only human after all. But none of that compares to the bitterness and rage that’s evoked by the sight of Childermass.

The first time he meets Norrell’s servant, he’s following the man down the hall at Norrell’s Hanover-square residence. The raggedy man in the outdated waistcoat and dusty jacket is obviously some sort of butler, but his stance and bearing come across more as though he feels he owns the place. He’s less showing Lascelles to Norrell’s study than he is _allowing_ Lascelles to follow him. 

Lascelles hates it. And this man, this walking trash bin, immediately sets his teeth on edge. 

Years go by, and Lascelles becomes editor of The Friends Of English Magic, elbowing out useless Lord Portishead and taking center stage in Mr. Norrell’s life. He becomes indispensable to Norrell, spends several days a week ensconced in the man’s study, engrossed in many a long conversation over important political matters, or Norrell’s and his publication, or the state of English magic. He is the man who whispers in the ear of one of the most powerful men in all of England. And yet, Norrell’s other ear is occupied simultaneously with whispers, suggestions and advice from that _filthy manservant._

There’s always a sly smirk on Childermass’ face when he and Lascelles happen to look at one another, which is far more than Lascelles would like if he’s to own the truth. 

Unfortunately for Lascelles, Childermass always has Norrell’s attention. He interrupts ministers and captains of industry, publishers and experts left and right. He gives his opinion when he damn well pleases, with no thought to class or propriety. And what’s even more infuriating, he’s actually _listened to_. The men will stop and turn to him, as will Norrell, as if his word, his opinions matter above those of even Norrell’s closest companion and co-editor. 

How preposterous. Lascelles loathes him.

At least, he’s almost certain that he Loathes Childermass. Sometimes, it is difficult to tell how he feels. For despite the fact that he wishes sorely to be allowed to put the man in his place, to horse whip him within an inch of his life, to get him sacked and tossed out onto the street, there is also something about Norrell’s dark, ragged servant that thrills Lascelles to his core. 

He cannot explain it. Hates even to be subjected to feelings as base as these, for someone so far beneath him. He hates Childermass, that much is clear, and so why should he feel anything for him but distaste? Why is there this buzzing, surging, sparking feeling in the pit of his stomach whenever those black eyes swing his way?

He cannot explain it, cannot understand it. He tells himself it’s simply an effect of extreme hatred and tries to shove it down, to lock the feelings away somewhere secure and small and well guarded. 

That is, until the day he looks at Childermass and knows his Secret Name. It’s written quite clearly, inside his mind’s eye. He can feel it, echoing in his bones, in his marrow, singing in his blood like the crisp toll of a church bell on a winter’s morning.

Lascelles is devastated. Ashamed. He had grown up knowing, simply _knowing_ that his soulmate would be a person of class and distinction. A person of good taste and elegant manners. A person like himself. Not this gutter rat. This mumbling cove. This pile of rags in the shape of a filthy man with a disrespectful sneer upon his face. 

If he is destined to be the soulmate of such a person, then what does that say about the value of Lascelles’ character? He’s striven so tirelessly to maintain a position of wealth and distinction in his life. He’s spoken only to the most influential and well heeled members of London society. All of his acquaintances are of a class either at or above his own. 

Except for Drawlight of course. His semi-constant companion is not exactly the most honorable or intelligent of men. But he knows how to fake being so, convincingly enough to earn a place in Lascelles’ social circle. And besides, what would Lascelles do if he didn’t have Drawlight, his faithful lapdog to follow him around and hang on every word he says? 

He can trust Drawlight just about as far as he can throw him of course, but he does need someone with which to share his thoughts and ideas. As unctuous and underhanded as Drawlight is, he has become indispensable to Lascelles over the past decade as a companion and an accomplice. Furthermore, Lascelles knows that Drawlight won’t betray his confidence, if only for the simple fact that Lascelles has so much dirt on the other man as to make mutual discretion an absolute assurance.

Still, despite his anguish at being paired with Childermass, he pauses for a moment to thank the fates involved for not picking Drawlight to be his soulmate. Imagining an eternity listening to that fop simper on about Mrs. This and Mr. That and who has six thousand a year and who was recently remanded to debtor’s prison… well it would surely drive Lascelles out of his mind.

But alas, the fates have conspired instead to choose someone almost as bad to bind to Lascelles’ soul for all eternity. Someone he cannot stand to look at without grinding his teeth. 

And because he can see Childermass’ Secret Name, this must mean Childermass can see his name as well. The very thought makes Lascelles shudder with revulsion. As if Childermass has managed to abscond with Lascelles’ secret diary, is reading the entries and laughing at him. Or that he’s managed to somehow lick with his filthy tongue, pry with his dirt stained fingers into the very chambers of Lascelles’ heart. 

The other man says nothing however, gives away nothing. He shows no indication that he’s even slightly aware that they’ve been matched up by fate to be soulmates. Mirrors of each other. Connected unto death. 

And this makes Lascelles even more angry and more unsettled. Now, when he visits Norrell, he cannot bear to look at the man’s ugly servant. With his calloused hands and twisted, stubbled face, his rat’s nest hair and dark, insolent gaze. 

As far as he can tell, Childermass, _Joh-_ , (No! Lascelles must not think upon that rogue’s Secret Name too often!) shows not even the slightest inclination that he knows. He seems to avoid Lascelles as well. In fact, it is only by the distinct, mutual lessening of any sort of social interaction between them that Lascelles can be certain that Childermass has been similarly cursed with the knowledge of his Secret Name. 

Usually, the two will at least share words once or twice of an afternoon. Lascelles will lower himself to correct Childermass’ grammar, or Childermass will interrupt Lascelles rudely when he’s talking. Now, the two do not interact at all. The difference thankfully goes unnoticed by Norrell, who never notices anything if it is not either bound into a book, or directly related to the study of magic. 

That much is a blessing. The last thing Lascelles wants is for anyone to notice that he and Childermass are connected in any way whatsoever outside of the work they both do for Norrell. And really, it’s only Childermass who works _for_ Norrell. Lascelles is more of an associate. This distinction is vital. 

What to do though? Whatever shall he do? He’s a man of lustful tastes and perverse needs. He cannot stay a chaste priest for the rest of his days. Nor can Lascelles imagine Norrell’s filthy servant putting his hands on Lascelles’ pristine skin. The very thought makes him shiver. With revulsion of course. Not with any sort of interest. Of course not!

He goes home that night and drinks far too much sherry and falls asleep in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. He dreams of Childermass’ dark eyes, haunting him as he runs through a shadowy house full of empty rooms. In each room, there is naught but a small, shabby bed with flea ridden covers and a lumpy pillow. Lascelles is so tired, exhausted down to his marrow, but he cannot bear to lie down upon any of the long succession of beds. He spends the entire dream, running from room to room, looking for somewhere clean to sleep. 

____________

He wakes with a dry mouth and a pounding head. Pulls himself up and out of the tangle of his sheets to see to his morning toilet in a grim haze. Childermass’ Secret Name keeps sounding over and over inside his mind like a death knoll. He can no more escape it than he can escape this horrid headache. He needs a cup of tea and fresh water for bathing, rings impatiently for a servant. Oscar pokes his head around the door frame and nods at Lascelles. “What can I get you sir?”

“Some tea and some hot water for bathing. Some dry toast as well. And hurry up!” He’s in a foul mood this morning.

Oscar hops to it and he returns shortly with a silver tray laden with a pot, a teacup and a small china plate stacked with toasted bread. Then a few moments later he hurries in with a new basin of hot water for washing. Lascelles tells him to stoke up the fire, and reprimands him for not having it blazing when he came home last night. 

Lascelles drinks some tea and nibbles at a piece of toast, all the while, going over in his mind how best to deal with this unfortunate situation involving Childermass. 

_John_. It’s a fine, handsome name. A solid name, for a solid man. Lascelles shakes his head when he catches himself getting whimsical. Only last night, he’d sworn to himself to try never even _think_ of Childermass’ Secret Name, and now look at him. Already daydreaming on the appropriateness of it, it’s simple solidity. Lascelles wishes suddenly to have another drink.

No one knows why some people have soulmates and others do not. It is a thing that has always been, and it is not swayed, nor is it changed by religion or science, or even by magic. Once your soulmate is revealed to you, you will either join together with them in the union of marriage, (or whatever union you both can manage if marriage is not available or desired). Or, if you choose to do so, ignore them, and spend a life feeling hollow, empty and unfulfilled. 

According to what he’s always been told on the matter, the affections of one’s heart and one’s sexual appetites will eventually turn toward one’s soulmate, inexorably, like a ship’s bow turns toward land in a storm. Soulmate bonds do not typically cross over lines of preference. If one has always desired women, it is highly likely one will be paired with a woman. If one has never favored sexual relations, than one is highly likely to be paired with another who feels similarly, and so forth.

Lascelles is not at all surprised that his soul mate is male. And he knows already that sexual desires will feature strongly, for he is a man of ravenous appetites. He can already feel the pull of heat between he and Childermass. Perhaps he’d felt glimmers of it mixing with the sharp irritation and anger that had categorized the majority of their previous interactions. And perhaps he had not then recognized it for what it truly was. 

Pairings that cross class boundaries are forgiven, for the two people involved cannot very well help their connection, but they are still looked down upon. People still tell bawdy, disrespectful jokes in the Inns and when deep in their cups at society functions of the Duke of Hamptonshire, who was at first dismayed to find that his soulmate was in fact the woman who did his washing. He married her at once, had her moved into his lustrous manor house in the country and would hear no one speak ill of her. But their union is still the butt of many a cruel joke. Lascelles should know. He’s told enough of them. 

And so regardless of the fact that cross-class soul-bonds are not unheard of and are generally accepted, they are still not desirable. It would have been so much easier for Lascelles to have been soul bonded with a gentleman of his own social caliber. And for Childermass to be bonded with some grubby servant or other. His connection with Childermass will surely ruin his reputation. He will be _ruined._

How will Lascelles be able to keep his once illustrious position among the upper crust if he’s known to be the soulmate of Childermass? A man who is little more than a well placed vagabond. A man who has had the unbelievable luck to glom onto Mr. Norrell before Norrell’s ascension to the position of the most notable person in London? Had it not been for the fact that a rising tide lifts all ships, Lascelles is almost certain that John, (he shakes his head in fierce self admonishment) that _Childermass,_ would have met his end in some gutter or in the dank cell of a prison. All people like Childermass end poorly. If he had not somehow ingratiated himself to stodgy, inflexible Norrell, they would never have even met, and Lascelles might have been free to live a life of his own choosing. 

If one never hears one’s soulmate’s name, if the fates do not conspire to bring one together with one’s soulmate, then a person may continue on with their life as normal, though everything will have about it a sense of loss, or of some important thing never having been. Like the loss of a parent at a young age, or the loss of a twin sibling in childbirth. Most people do meet their soulmates though. There is something in that inherent bond that leads people to one another. A tug of destiny. And Lascelles should have recognized this tug far sooner. He can sense it now, quite clearly. He’d only mistaken it for revulsion and hatred. 

Now he can see it for what it truly is. A twisted sort of lust. A dark, confusing sort of need. That shivering, tingling feeling in his gut. It had been a soul-bond all along. 

Lascelles takes another bolstering sip of tea and resists the urge to ring for something stronger. He needs his senses sharp today if he’s to keep his wits about him around Childermass. 

For a moment, he lets himself ponder on the reasons why he may have been inextricably paired with a man like Childermass. It is true, upon a few moment’s reflection, that there are some things they share in common. A connection to English magic. A connection to Mr. Norrell. They are both clever. Both have a way of plucking at the strings of other people’s perceptions of themselves, at nudging people toward an outcome they both prefer. Though Lascelles does so with the elegance of a classical pianist and Childermass accomplishes the same goal with the bluntness of a dull butcher’s knife. 

They both hold within them many secrets, and Lascelles would pay good money to learn Childermass’ as the other man no doubt would give a good deal to learn his. 

Lascelles suddenly realizes that he’s spent the better part of an hour, pondering his connection to Childermass. His tea has gone cold and he’s not yet bathed. He hurriedly begins to undress, noting with displeasure that the water in his washbasin has also gone cold. He calls for Oscar to bring him another basin and strives with all of his might not to think of Childermass as he readies himself to face the day.


	2. Chapter 2

He arrives at Norrell’s residence in Hanover-square at half past ten in the morning and is shown to the study by Lucas. Or perhaps it’s Davey. Lascelles has never bothered to learn which was which. Childermass is there, at his desk, head bent over some sort of writing. He looks up when Lascelles enters and their eyes meet for the briefest of moments. Lascelles feels a jolt in his gut, before Childermass looks back down at his work as if nothing of note has happened at all. Lascelles grinds his teeth. 

“Good morning Mr. Norrell!” He greets Norrell as he always does, with a sunny sort of charm. 

“Ah. Yes. Good morning Mr. Lascelles! I have some questions for you about this second to last paragraph upon the fifth page. Come, pull up a chair. Have you eaten? Lucas, please ask Dido to fetch myself and Mr. Lascelles some tea and something to eat.” He barely glances at Lascelles before turning his attention back to the papers on the desk in front of him.

Lascelles pointedly does not say a word to Childermass, but that at least is not any sort of change from the normal way they behave. Neither man has ever wished the other so much as a good day. 

He and Norrell soon become absorbed in their work and the time slips by rather enjoyably. Norrell, for all his curmudgeonliness, is a pleasant enough companion. If he were not, Lascelles would have been unable to bear the last several years of their professional acquaintanceship. Yes, there are times he wishes he could throttle the man, but he feels this way about most people, and so this is nothing new. 

He’d like to throttle Childermass in particular. And now that he thinks of Childermass, he dares to cut his eyes at where the man is still sitting, bent over his work at his desk. His hair, ragged and loose as a thundercloud, falls about his face in a dark curtain, showing only a sliver of his pale profile as he writes. He wields his quill swiftly and surely, scratching away with nary a pause. It had shocked Lascelles to learn that Childermass even knew his letters, let alone that he could conduct so very much writing under Norrell’s employment. 

He’d been continually surprised by Childermass’ business acumen and literary knowledge. The man has many hidden talents it seems, and Lascelles wonders idly if any of them carry over into the bedroom.

He swiftly re-centers his attention back on Norrell’s words and admonishes himself for his lapse. The soul-bond is clearly doing things to his mind, making him want things he’d never admit to wanting, think things he should not be thinking. He’ll have to be very careful to guard his thoughts and feelings as the bond becomes more solidified. 

He is beyond irritated that Childermass seems to be suffering no effects at all. The man behaves as usual. He doesn’t sneak any looks at Lascelles (or at least any that Lascelles can detect), and his demeanor, dark and cynical, as if he can’t be bothered with anyone’s opinion but his own, hasn’t changed in the slightest. 

Around two o’clock, when they break for a light dinner, Childermass stands and saunters from the room. Lascelles watches the other man leave, hoping for some indication, some change in his step or perhaps a backward glance that will betray his knowledge of their bond, but sees nothing to support his hopes. He  _ does _ unfortunately find his eyes playing over the width of Childermass’ shoulders and the tapered cut of his outdated jacket. He  _ does _ note the wild tangle of hair that falls down the man’s back in a barely contained spill of ebony coloured brambles. He cannot pull his eyes away until Childermass has left the study entirely and has shut the door behind him. 

Childermass returns from whatever errand he went upon a few moments later and again, though Lascelles boldly watches his face and body for changes in demeanor, for some slip of the eye in Lascelles’ direction that will betray his inner thoughts, he sees nothing. Well, nothing except how very sharp the cut of Childermass’ stubbled jaw line is above the off-white fold of his neck cloth. Nothing except the grim set of the man’s lips and his coal-dark eyes as they stare straight ahead at his desk without deviating a single iota toward Lascelles. 

By the end of the third day of this silent disinterest, Lascelles feels as if he’s coming apart on the inside. As if his joints no longer adequately hold his bones in place. He feels every inch of his skin perk up and begins to tingle when he thinks of Childermass or dares to look in the man’s direction. 

He is infuriated by Childermass’ lack of interest and attention, ashamed at his burning feelings, thoroughly disgusted with himself and with Childermass both. 

He decides that he must broach the subject and let Childermass know that he has no intentions of joining with him in some sort of sordid affair, or (and he shudders at the thought) in  _ marriage _ . It is high time he made it crystal clear that Childermass cannot expect any sort of connection between them. Even though the man hasn’t asked, nor shown the smallest glimmer of interest, Lascelles cannot bear the thought that Childermass could  _ assume _ that Lascelles is suffering this way. He must set the record straight. Let the man know that he’s repulsed by the idea of any sort of union between them.

When Childermass rises to leave the room on his next errand, Lascelles softly excuses himself and follows the man out into the hall. Blessedly, there are no other servants about and they are, for the moment alone. 

“Childermass,” Lascelles uses his most imperious voice and is shocked when Childermass ignores him and carries on walking away as if Lascelles had not spoken.

“ _ John _ ,” Lascelles is not sure what possesses him to say Childermass’ Secret Name, out loud, in a house that is not his own, but it does the trick. Childermass stops dead in his tracks and freezes in place. A brief but very awkward silence ensues, before he whirls around and marches up to Lascelles, who just barely suppresses the urge to flinch away from him, to falter backward a step. He holds his ground however, as the man comes up very near to him and pushes his face up close to Lascelles’s face.

“How  _ dare _ you use that name, in _ this _ place, in  _ that  _ tone of voice.  _ How dare you _ ?” His breath is hot and smells of pipe smoke as he hisses his words at Lascelles. His eyes are bright and glittering with barely suppressed anger. 

“I...I..” Lascelles is lost, spluttering in fear and confusion and a sort of heady arousal that swells up and takes him utterly by surprise. He’s never seen this side of Chiildermass. Fierce. Enraged and insulted. It is… highly compelling.

“You’re never to use that name to address me in public again,” Childermass says, his voice dipping into a deadly hush. “You may call me by my Secret Name only when you begin treating me with a modicum of respect, and not a moment sooner. And so I think we both know that you are unlikely to ever say it again.”

Lascelles has found a bit of equilibrium now, and he firms up his stance, pulls himself up to his full height, which is comparable to Childermass’. “You need not worry,  _ Childermass _ ,” he injects a fair bit of venom into the man’s surname. “I’ve no intention of  _ ever _ saying that name again. I only came out here to tell you that despite the….unfortunate circumstances in which we find ourselves, I think it best to avoid any...deeper association. I believe it’s best to ignore this… this...” he cannot say the words  _ soul-bond _ . To do so would make it real for them both in a way he’s unprepared to manage. “Entanglement” he finishes. 

“That does well for me,” Childermass replies. He doesn’t step away immediately though. He holds his ground, keeps his eyes trained fiercely on Lascelles’. He’s breathing hard and he looks so very fierce, and for a few heartbeats, both men do nothing but stare at each other. 

Lascelles can see the connection now, he can see it deep in the coffee and soot depths of Childermass’ eyes. The heat and need. The  _ bond _ . It is there afterall. The sight of it, that mutual longing, makes Lascelles feel as if his knees will buckle, that he’ll perhaps fall to the floor in a faint. 

Luckily, before such a thing can happen, Childermass lets out a hot huff of air, shakes his head a little in what looks like regret and turns away. He stalks off without so much as a ‘good day sir,” leaving Lascelles gasping. Confused and aroused out in Norrell’s hallway. 

It takes him some moments to calm himself and get his thoughts in order before he can go back to the study and resume his day’s work.

That night, as he lies in his bed, exhausted from the emotional turmoil of the day and muzzy headed from another few glasses of conciliatory sherry, he finds his thoughts returning over and over again to Childermass. To his anger and the fierce penetration of his dark eyes. 

Lascelles had genuinely expected to inform Childermass of his intention to drop their soul-bond and then that would be that. He hadn’t expected to let the man’s Secret Name spill so easily from his lips. It had been rash and frightfully rude of him. And though he’s never cared much for propriety where Childermass is concerned before today, he still feels shame skitter unpleasantly across his scalp at the memory. It is universally understood that Secret Names are only to be used in the bedroom, or in the privacy of a couple’s home. During intimate times when they are alone. 

The reason for this of course is because hearing one’s Secret Name, spoken by one’s soulmate, is known to be very arousing. Romantically, sexually. It brings forth a surge of feeling and sensation that can be overwhelming and difficult if not impossible to hide. 

When Lascelles had thrown out Childermass’ Secret Name in Norrell’s hallway, he’d made a grave social faux pas on par with dropping to his knees and trying to fellate the man in public. He was saved only by the fact that there were no witnesses to such a dreadful lapse in judgment.

Some part of him though, had been desperate to get a reaction out of Childermass. To crack that stoney, disinterested facade. And the use of the man’s Secret Name had done that, with relatively startling results. 

Childermass clearly possesses a will made of iron. He’d heard his name, felt the resulting surge of feeling and sensation and had managed to suppress it for the most part. He hadn’t however, Lascelles recalls smugly, been able to hide the look in his eyes. 

Now, safely at home and under his covers, Lascelles allows himself a few moments to live in the memory of the man’s dark gaze upon his face. Childermass’s eyes had echoed with crackling flames of lust. With the onyx sheen of a deep, mutual need. But only for a moment. One moment where his true feelings had escaped like so many starlings from the underbrush, flitting past Lascelles’ face and away into the ether as if they’d never been. But in that moment…  _ oh my. _ Lascelles had seen an echo of his own torment. Just enough to feel a flush of triumph over the realization that Childermass desires him as well. 

He’s throbbing with want at the memory, and cannot help but reach a trembling hand down to palm himself through his nightdress. The pressure causes sharp pangs of lust, and he lets out a soft moan and presses down a bit harder. He has his nightdress hiked up and has himself in hand before he’s even consciously decided to do it. Thoughts of Childermass, glaring at him, the twin pools of his dark eyes trained on Lascelles’ face, his heaving chest and tangled hair, play themselves over and over in Lascelles’ mind as he strokes himself. 

It takes an embarrassingly short time before he feels himself tighten and twist and then unfurl in a rush of sharp pleasure as he reaches his peak. He gasps Childermass’ Secret Name as he comes to his end, unable to stop himself. 

He drifts off to sleep in the loose, tingling aftermath of his pleasure, thinking that perhaps now that they’ve hashed things out and settled things, that it will grow easier with time. 

Only it doesn’t. 


	3. Chapter 3

For the next week, he goes to Norrell’s almost daily, and he isn’t sure if he’s doing so because they have much work to do in getting out the latest installment of The Friends, or because he needs to see Childermass. He suspects it is the latter.

Childermass continues to ignore Lascelles and Lascelles feels the lack of attention like a missing limb. He treats Childermass with the same cold indifference, but he knows very well who cut communications first, and who is enforcing the continued stalemate. 

Each day he suffers through being near to Childermass, feeling the tug of their bond grow stronger and stronger until it becomes an unbearable pull. Each night he strokes himself in desperation and cries out Childermass’ Secret Name. He feels torn apart by a lust that has no real outlet. By the stoic, entirely unmoved presence of Childermass during his days at Hanover-square, and how the man’s lustful twin takes Lascelles apart in his nightly imaginings. The incongruity of it is driving him mad. 

And through it all, Childrmass remains impassive. He is so apparently unaffected by their bond, that Lascelles begins to think he might have imagined the tense, erotic confrontation in Norrell’s hallway, now almost a month ago. Childermass is calm, cool, collected. On the very rare occasions when they are forced to speak, he responds to Lascelles’ questions or asks his own with curt efficiency. Norrell is oblivious, likely thinks that they’re getting along better than usual, as there's’ been none of their normal snipping and griping. 

Lascelles eventually decides he’s had enough torture and needs to escape. He needs to get out of London and away from Childermass’ cold, cruel, unfeeling face. He tells Norrell he’ll be spending a fortnight at his country home in Oxfordshire and gives the man his address, in case he has any correspondence to send to Lascelles while he’s away.

The country air will do him good. He’ll get some reading done, settle some financial affairs. Perhaps have dinner at the S___’s or W____’s, for his neighbors do so enjoy the touch of refined entertainment he brings to their dinner parties and gatherings. And best of all, he won’t be able to let his bond with Childermass tug him so inexorably to Hanover-square every blessed day. His country home is two long days ride from London, and he doubts strongly that even a soul-bond could work to bring him back before his two week sabbatical is done. 

He has Oscar supervise the packing of a carriage with his clothes, some books, his financial ledger, and some food for the journey. He sets off, with Oscar, his footman and his groom, early the next morning. 

It’s an uneventful ride, spent staring out at the passing scenery and (regrettably) thinking far too much about Childermass. He absently thinks of Childermass’ hands, the shape of them upon Norrell’s books as he slides them efficiently back onto the shelf. He thinks of Childermass’ shoulders, and how strong they look beneath his drab, black jacket. He thinks of many things, some of them indecent, and several times scolds himself for his wishful imaginings, as well as for the shameful reactions of his body to such thoughts. 

They spend the night at a passable inn, (though the food leaves much to be desired and the mattress is too lumpy for Lascelles’ tastes). The next day's ride goes smoothly as well, and soon, he can see the bulk of his manor house looming in the distance as the afternoon sun slowly makes its way toward the horizon in a flare of red and gold.

He arrives and settles in, has the groom, Samuel start fires in the sitting room and his bedroom. He’s hired a cook from the nearby town of S______, but she won’t arrive until early the next day. He’s perfectly content however to sup on some cheese and bread and a cold meat pie by the fire while he peruses a collection of poems he’s been meaning to read for some time. The fire crackles merrily in the hearth and he spends a pleasant evening, sipping some mulled wine and reading. 

The poems are of a very romantic nature, which is a blessing. He’s fairly certain his feelings for Childermass reside firmly in the realm of sexual pleasure. How could he possibly feel... _ romantic affection  _ for such a blunt, scruffy personage? But as he reads, as the words of the poet praise the pale cheek and delicate hand of his lady love, Lascelles finds his thoughts again and again returning to Childermass. 

My how Childermass’ hair is so very dark in contrast to his pale skin. My how his lips, thin and sometimes twisted into a sneer, are nevertheless of a very pleasing shape. He contemplates pressing his mouth to Childermass’ in a kiss. Imagines how that might feel. It isn’t until he realizes he’s stopped reading all together and is staring off into space, lost in a fantasy of kissing Childermass while running fingers through the man’s hair that he thinks perhaps he was mistaken about the lack of romantic feelings. 

_ Land sakes! _ However is he to get anything done if he’s to spend all his time pining for Childermass? For  _ John _ . Just the thought of Childermass’ Secret Name and Lascelles feels himself flush all over with sudden heat. He makes his way to bed eventually, and, as he always does, he finds sweet release in the form of self pleasure as he thinks of Childermass’ body near him, Childermass lips upon his skin. He’s a mess of a man and he knows it, falls asleep sated for the moment, but still unable to quell the constant tug and turmoil that exists inside him. 

The next evening he attends a dinner at the house of Lord and Lady W____. A lovely time is had by all, as Lascelles entertains his guests with gossip from the city and catches up on the charmingly provincial goings on of their country connections. They ask how he is, and he tells them he’s doing swimmingly. That his close, personal connection to Mr. Norrell is steady and productive. He regales them with stories of magic and politics, and for some moments, he’s able to put Childermass from his mind. 

It is on the way home that tragedy strikes. He rode to dinner on horseback, for the W____s do not live far from his estate. It’s a dark night, the moon not having risen yet. He somehow takes a wrong turn, and is suddenly quite lost. His horse makes a misstep, stumbles upon some rock or places its hoof in a gopher hole. He feels the creature lurch beneath him, and he’s had a bit too much wine with supper, and so he loses his balance and tumbles from the saddle. He feels a sharp stab of pain and white light explodes behind his eyes and all goes black. 

He wakes to the soft snuffle of his horse nearby. His head is pounding and there’s a wetness he feels as a cool patch upon his forehead. He must have fallen and hit his head upon a rock. He struggles to get to his feet, feels a sudden swell of nausea and bends over double to vomit into the bushes at the side of the road. Blessedly, the moon has risen while he lay unconscious, and there’s a thin, silvery light to see by. He feels very drowsy and sick, and he’s certain he is bleeding from his head. He mounts his horse after several tries and nudges the animal toward his estate. He can see where he took the wrong road as he approaches an intersection half a mile later, and this time, he takes the right path toward home.

He grows frightfully groggy and sways in his saddle, almost toppling out of it a second time before jerking awake at the last minute. He thinks perhaps he’s lost a lot of blood and worries that he’ll fall again and expire by the side of the road. Finally though, after what seems an interminable, dizzy ride, he sees the lit windows of his house in the distance. As he approaches, he hears someone call his name in a voice that’s low and urgent. He is still so very dizzy at this point, and feels himself grow faint and confused. He sways again in the saddle and keels over sideways. Luckily, he is caught by a pair of strong arms that prevent him from falling to the ground like a rag doll. 

He looks up blearily into the face of Childermass, who has caught him and who is now looking at him with a fierce expression in his eyes. 

“Childermass,” he says. It’s almost a whisper, for that is all he can manage. “Have I ridden all the way to Hanover-square?” and with that, he promptly loses consciousness. 

_____________________

He wakes to a candle lit bedroom. His head is pounding like a whole regiment of soldiers are marching through it, and his throat is frightfully dry. “Water,” he croaks, and a hand extends, passing him a cup of cold water. He drinks gratefully, gives the cup back with a mumbled word of thanks and then darkness reaches up and pulls him under again.

When next he wakes, it’s morning, or at least the golden slice of light that pierces through the velvet bedroom curtains tells him it is daytime. His head still pounds, but now it is a lesser pain. He reaches a hand up to investigate and finds a bandage there. He squirms a bit under the blessedly warm covers and finds that he is in his shirtsleeves and breeches and stockings. He frowns when he realizes his clothes will be quite wrinkled.

He lifts his head with some difficulty to look around the room and recognizes that he is still in his house in Oxfordshire. He thinks for a moment that he imagined Childermass, that his confused and pain-addled brain had invented the man from fevered imaginings, strung together with hope and desperation. But then the door opens and Childermass walks in, real as life. Lascelles is quite surprised, but he does not let the emotion show upon his face.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, trying for irritation and falling far short. 

“I will talk about that at a later time,” Childermass says with a small, dismissive shake of his head. “How are you feeling?”

“Foolish, and like I’ve been whacked upon the head with an iron poker,” Lascelles responds, squinting with the pounding that still rattles around inside his skull. 

“I’d suspect as much. I don’t know what happened to you, but you’ve sustained a nasty cut to the head. It bled heavily, but it is small, and luckily there’s no need for stitches. The local doctor has come and gone while you slept.” 

Lascelles groans, thinking of how his appearance might be affected negatively by a scar. He’ll look like some sort of pub brawler for sure. 

“What happened Mr. Lascelles?” Childermass sounds genuinely curious. His eyes are gentle and he’s dropped the stony, disaffected expression that’s characterized so many of their interactions recently. He is standing quite close to the bed, his hands clasped behind his back, waiting patiently for Lascelles to speak. 

“I was set upon by highwaymen,” Lascelles says. “There were four of them, and I managed to beat them off with my whip, but one of them got a blow in and knocked me from my horse.”

Childermass narrows his eyes and gives Lascelles a look.

Lascelles sighs. “My horse stumbled and I fell out of the saddle. Must have hit my head upon a rock on the way down.”

Childermass smiles. It’s a small smile, barely a twitch of his thin lips, but Lascelles feels it like a burst of sunshine in the darkened bedroom. “I suppose you’ll tell all of Norrell’s servants about my embarrassing tumble,” he says, frowning to cover for the warm feeling inside his chest. Frowning hurts his head and so he winces and tries to school his face into as neutral an expression as possible. 

“Not at all,” Childermass replies. “I’ve no wish to see you humiliated.”

Lascelles is surprised to hear this, but makes no comment. “I think I shall go back to sleep now,” he says. Childermass nods and leaves the room and Lascelles lets himself drift off into a fuzzy sort of half-sleep. 


	4. Chapter 4

He wakes again when Oscar brings him a bowl of broth and some bread, and gratefully accepts it. After he’s eaten, Oscar helps him to use the bedpan and change into his nightdress and he settles back in bed, feeling a bit more sturdy, but still with a pounding behind his temples. 

Childermass returns a short while later. Lascelles is still not certain why the man is here and asks him as much.

“Norrell had an urgent letter for you,” Childermass says by way of explanation. “It involved some detailed instructions surrounding your recent work on The Friends, and so I thought it best that I come out here and go over it with you in person. Norrell felt that was best as well. He’d rather give me up for a few days then wait for the edits to be done upon your return.”

This seems reasonable enough, and so Lascelles nods. “Well, I am sorry that you came all this way, only to play nursemaid to me in my sick bed,” he remarks. 

Childermass shrugs. “I think you shall be up and about again by tomorrow sir. We can work on the edits at that time if you see fit.”

“Very well,” Lascelles is simply pleased that they are speaking. Not snapping at one another. Behaving very civilly. He has missed his little back and forths with Childermass, and so he’s heartened by the other man’s relatively friendly mood. “Have you managed to get yourself something to eat? I trust the cook is set up in the kitchens.” 

“I have, thank you,” Childermass says with a slight incline of his head. “I’ve helped her find her way around and have organized your staff to cut firewood, clean up, that sort of thing. It is afterall, my job,” he smiles again, and Lascelles is suddenly too warm under the covers. 

“Thank you,” he says. Childermass’ eyebrows rise in astonishment, but he does not remark on the rare gratitude from his former enemy. He simply nods and turns to leave.

“Won’t you stay?” The words are out of Lascelles’ mouth before he can stop them. 

Childermass pauses, seems almost as if he will leave after all, but then, his shoulders relax and he lets out a small sigh. “Yes, of course,” he says, and Lascelles feels his heart take wings inside his chest. 

“Tell me what has transpired in Hanover-square these past...what has it been? Three days?” Lascelles asks. He sits up a bit in bed with a grimace, hoping to look more amenable to company and striving to ignore the dull ache behind his temples. 

“Not much to be honest,” Childermass replies, pulling up a chair to Lascelles’ bedside. “May I smoke?” he asks. Lascelles, who usually hates smoking indoors, nods eagerly, and Childermass takes out his pouch of tobacco and his pipe. As he packs it, he speaks. “Norrell seems all aflutter now that you’ve gone away. He really does rely quite heavily upon you and your opinion. In your absence, he’s been snappish and sullen.”

Lascelles preens a bit at hearing this. “It is always nice to know that one is missed,” he says, unable to help a small smile from teasing at the corners of his mouth. 

“That it is.” Childermass gets up to grab a smoldering twig from the hearth and lights his pipe before sitting back down. “You were only gone for the better part of one day before he sent me after you, so I cannot remark much further on the goings on of Hanover-square. But I am certain that now, with both of us absent, he will soon lose his wits.”

Lascelles smiles a genuine smile. Childermass is surely telling the truth, for Norrell has grown quite dependent on both of them. He is happy that the other man was feeling so talkative, and that they can relax into this small respite from their stiff avoidance of one another. He knows it is likely a brief state of affairs and sets his mind to enjoying it while it lasts.

They end up chatting for the better part of two hours, trading stories of Norrell’s eccentricities, discussing the work they do together. Childermass seems to let down his guard and talks a little bit about his past. Lascelles is careful to watch his usually sharp tongue, and makes a true effort to respond politely and with interest to the things Childermass tells him. 

This lovely cease-fire makes it quite difficult for Lascelles not to imagine that this is how life could be for them. If they were to marry. To live under the same roof. Share the same bed. The warmth in Childermass’ eyes as they talk, is a seductive reminder that it might not be all that unfortunate were they to bind their lives together. He marvels again at how his feelings have changed so drastically in only a few weeks time. From loathing to… well… to something far warmer.

Eventually, Childermass excuses himself to see to some things around the house, and Lascelles drifts back off to sleep.

He wakes again in the late afternoon and is able to get up and make his way, unassisted, to a small table in his rooms for supper. Childermass dines with him, which is precisely what he’d hoped for. There’s more pleasant conversation, and Lascelles is again given a glimpse of how life might be were he to give in to his urges and simply accept their soul-bond. If he were to perhaps propose marriage and live his life with Childermass as his lawful husband. And if he were to ask, he is certain Childermass would accept him. What better prospects could he ever expect? Married to a wealthy, well respected London gentleman with means and influence? He could spend the rest of his days in the relative lap of luxury. 

As they eat, a rather delightful capon with lemon and capers, accompanied by a chilled Chardonnay, he lets the idea swell inside him. Lets it tempt him, along with the flirtatious shine in Childermass dark eyes across the dinner table. 

“And so I told the man that I was a milliner. That I made ladies hats and other ‘fol-de-lols’, and though he did not believe me, he played as if he had, and stole Norrell’s spells! Straight out of my pocket!” Childermass is relating the tale of how he had met Vinculus, the filthy street magician Norrell had tasked him with ousting from London. His face is flushed a little with the wine and his eyes are glittering merrily in the light of the candelabra that graces their small table. Lascelles is overcome with emotion, and before he can stop himself, he’s risen shakily, taken one unsteady step, and has fallen to his knee by Childermass’ chair.

“I say sir, are you ill?” Childermass is clearly confused. His confusion seems only to deepen as Lascelles picks up his hand and kisses it. 

“Please, Mr. Childermass. Please. I can bear the agony no longer.” Lascelles knows he is being rash, but it’s clear that Childermass desires him. That he returns Lascelles’ ardent feelings. It’s never been so apparent as it is right now, reflected back to him in the shine of the other man’s dark eyes in the candle light. He  _ must _ act. He must do something, or else he will surely die of longing. “I must tell you how ardently I adore you,” Lascelles continues. “I know that you come from a lowly background and that you have very little to your name, and I wish you to know that this matters not to me. I no longer care that you are a bastard, nor that you are a servant. I must marry you. Please, Mr. Childermass, allow me to elevate you above your current station. Agree to be my husband and live with me in my home forever more!”

He expects a great many things. For Childermass to pull him into his arms and kiss him. For Childermass to gasp in delight and immediately accept his proposal, perhaps shedding a happy tear or two in the process. 

He does not expect Childermass to roughly pull his hand away and stand up abruptly from his chair. “You sir, are unbelievable!” The man’s eyes are burning with anger and Lascelles is quite bewildered. 

“W-was not my proposal amenable to you?” He watches as Childermass, his lips pressed into a thin, pale line, shakes his head in disgust. 

“I thought you had changed,” Childermass says, his voice gentle and soft and terrifying in its barely suppressed rage. “I thought you’d become a decent sort of person, that you’d give up on your relentless campaign to behave as a complete and utter arse and a snob. I see now that I was mistaken.”

“But...Mr. Childermass-” Lascelles is still kneeling upon the floor, his mouth has fallen open in surprise. How could this evening that started out so very promising, have gone so awry in mere moments? “Are you not flattered by my proposal?”

“Flattered?  _ Flattered? _ How is it sir that I am supposed to be flattered at hearing that you are willing to put my  _ lowly birth _ and uncertain lineage to the side in order to  _ condescend  _ to marrying me?”

Lascelles somehow makes it back onto his feet and stands, trembling, gaping at Childermass, who glares back at him. “Do you expect me to simply ignore the inferiority of your station?” he asks, feeling his ire rising at Childermass’ abrupt and disrespectful change of tone, at how this evening is swiftly becoming a disaster. “I am a well respected member of London society. I do not think you fully understand the risk I am taking by proposing marriage to an individual such as yourself.”

“An individual such as-” Childermass cannot finish the sentence, bites off his words off in an angry click as his jaw snaps shut. He sets his face in a grim mask of anger and steps around Lascelles and out of the room. 

“Where are you going?!” Lascelles is confused and distraught. 

“Anywhere else!” Childermass growls, and then he is gone. His pipe smoke smell lingers teasingly in the air as Lascelles listens to him stomp away down the hall. 

Lascelles is incensed. Angry beyond reason. How could Childermass so blithely reject his perfectly good offer of matrimony? Did the man enjoy never having any money? Being a servant to a wealthier man? Being told what to do all the time? How could he have possibly taken offense at what Lascelles had said? 

Was it not a fact that Childermass was a bastard? Why, Norrell himself had intimated as much about his man of business (not that Lascelles was surprised in the slightest by this revelation). Was it not a fact that he had very little in the way of money and nothing in the way of land or prospects? Was he not scruffy, poorly dressed, of a low class birth? All of these things were true, and so why should he be angry to hear them said aloud?

Lascelles would have thought that Childermass would be overjoyed at the opportunity to be financially taken care of for the rest of his days. Pampered. Cared for. Kissed and embraced. Made love to… Lascelles thought it best not to dwell too long upon those particular thoughts. He instead strove to return to his anger at being rejected. He’d never once before now craved the bonds of matrimony. The fact that he had recently decided that it was a thing he very much wanted, only to have the opportunity slapped rudely from his hands made him very angry indeed. 

He finds his robe and shrugs it on over his night dress before pulling on his stockings and shoes. He is unsure if he is trembling more from his wound and resulting weakened condition, or from his pure vexation at the way Childermass had so coldly rejected him. After having dressed adequately enough to leave his bedchamber, and smoothing down his hair, he goes in search of Childermass. He needs to let the other man know, in no uncertain terms that not only had his rejection  _ not _ affected Lascelles in the slightest, but that there will not be a second proposal. Not for all the gold in the King’s coffers!

He cannot find Childermass anywhere in the house, and it is only by lowering himself to ask the cook where he had gone that he finds the man out in the back garden, jacket off, chopping wood. 

For a little while, Lascelles is unable to do anything other than watch, as Childermass picks up a large log and splits it into smaller pieces with great, swinging, overhead strikes of the ax. His shoulder muscles twitch and flex beneath his shirt. His hair has come loose and is a wild tangle around his face and spilling down his back. He looks like some sort of fae woodsman and Lascelles finds that he cannot speak for a few long, heart pounding moments. 

Eventually though, he realizes that he can’t simply stand there and ogle while Childermass chops wood, and so he clears his throat rather loudly to alert the man to his presence. Childermass pauses in the act of reaching down to grab another log and turns to look at Lascelles, and their eyes lock. 

“I...erm...I came to tell you that... you’ve been very rude to me,” Lascelles says, feeling hot and shivery all over and suddenly not nearly angry enough to make his point. 

“Is that so?” Childermass’ voice is rough and deep. He embeds the axe in the chopping block with a casual strike, drops the latest log and tosses his hair out of his eyes. Lascelles suddenly feels a bit weak in the knees. “Is that all you came here to say?” Childermass adds.

“No, I… well… I came to tell you that since you’ve so rudely rejected me, that I won’t be making a second offer for your hand. That door is now closed to you.” Lascelles juts out his chin and tries to adopt a look of offended consternation. It’s difficult when Childermass’ narrow torso is outlined so pleasingly by his long waistcoat. 

Childermass gives a mirthless chuckle. He puts his hands on his hips and stares at Lascelles through the ripples of wild hair that fall about his face. Lascelles swallows, audibly. He’d mistakenly thought that Childermass’ hair was black, but now, dappled with patches of late afternoon sunshine, he can see it is closer to a rich, dark brown.

“I find it unfortunate that you do not yet understand why what you said to me during your proposal was so insulting. And perhaps you never will understand it,” Childermass says. “But on the off chance that you need it explained to you, I shall endeavor to do my best.” As he says this, he takes a step or two closer, keeping his eyes on Lascelles’ face. Lascelles is very proud of himself for holding his ground, for not backing up, as Childermass looks quite fearsome, with his wild hair and shirtsleeves, his chest heaving just a bit with his recent exertions. 

“I grew up with nothing,” Childermass says. “Not a blessed thing. My mother, she trained me up to pick pockets, to bump into gentlemen such as yourself at the market or on the streets and cut their purses. So that we could have food to eat, coal for the fire. I left home young and made my way out into the world. I taught myself to read and write, as my mother could not teach me. I worked hard for a decade, on ships, in lumber yards, in the fields, doing anything and everything that would make me some coin to feed myself, put clothing upon my back. I scraped and slaved and worked to make a place for myself in the world. It was something I was  _ proud of _ , Mr. Lascelles. The hard work I did to survive, and not die in some workhouse of consumption. To not be knifed in some dark alley. 

“I am not certain if you are capable of grasping what that’s like. To do the sort of work that makes your fingers bleed and your back ache. The sort of work that leaves you dead tired at the end of the day, to where you cannot even bother to undress before collapsing upon whatever scratchy cot you’ve been afforded to sleep in, and falling senseless with exhaustion. I cannot imagine that you’ve ever even had to  _ contemplate _ that sort of work. You, with your soft skin and scholar’s hands and your pretty face. You’ve never suffered for your dinner Mr. Lascelles. 

“Finding Norrell was a blessing. I learned magic from him, I learned the ways of diplomacy and politics, the ways of  _ gentlemen _ such as yourself.” He says the word with a sneer in his voice. “I’ve worked for him for some fifteen years now, and have scraped and saved every penny he’s given me, not bothering to spend it on new silk stockings or on wine or women or molly boys. I have worked  _ hard _ Mr. Lascelles. Far harder than you could even imagine from within your fancy manor house or your Bruton-street address. So to have you, a man that I have been  _ cursed _ to be soul-bonded to, tell me that  _ despite _ my background,  _ despite _ my lack of connections or my lack of money, that you are willing to  _ condescend  _ to marry me… well, it is an insult to all of my work and self reliance. An insult I cannot overlook. You do not know me, Mr. Lascelles. Nor do you understand me, and now I see you are not ever likely to. I will leave at once and go back to London. I will be civil when I see you next. We need not quarrel. But our work for Mr. Norrell is the  _ only  _ way in which we shall remain connected. Good day sir!”

And with that, he brushes past Lascelles and strides toward the house. Lascelles, still quite stunned from the dressing down he’s just been given, whirles around to watch him leave. “But Mr. Childermass!” he cannot help the note of desperation that threads its way shamefully through his voice. 

Childermass stops walking, but keeps his back to Lascelles. “What,” he says, his voice dead and cold. 

“What of the edits?” Lascelles is desperate. He needs Childermass not to walk away and leave him alone with his knife-sharp longing. If the obligations of work mean anything to the man, then surely he will stay and finish Norrell’s edits to The Friends…

Childermass turns around and Lascelles is surprised to see an expression of sorrowful regret play briefly across his face. “The edits do not matter Mr. Lascelles,” He says on the tail end of a deep sigh. “It was I who convinced Norrell that I had to come. I…. I was so desperate to see you.” And with one last unreadable look at Lascelles, he turns back around and walks into the house. 

Lascelles stands there, mouth agape, heart banging against his ribcage for some long moments before Childermass’ words penetrate the haze of his anguished confusion. Once they do, he rushes inside, only to see Childermass, a hastily packed bag slung over his shoulder, heading out toward where his great, ugly horse is now being held for him in the drive by Lascelles’ groom, Samuel. 

“But… Mr. Childermass. You… you mustn’t go yet!” he exclaims. 

Childermass does not respond, instead he shoots an angry glare at Lascelles, a look Lascelles can feel like a hammer blow to the chest. Then he mounts up and turns his horse toward the road. Lascelles watches him leave, feeling utterly lost and miserable in a way he has not felt in years, perhaps ever in his life. He wanders inside in a daze and goes to his rooms. He’s still weak from his head wound and now, he’s trembling with unspent nerves. 

He kicks off his shoes, crawls into his bed and pulls the covers up around him. His head is pounding in the wake of the rush of emotion he’d felt at hearing Childermass’ cold denunciation. Eventually, after much tossing and turning and worrying, he falls into a fitful sleep. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I truly want is to make Henry a better person so he can fall in love and cuddle with Childermass. I am a big softy, and I know it's OOC And I DON'T CARE. LET ME HAVE THIS!!
> 
> Anyway. Read on.

The rest of Lascelles’ time in the country is not well spent. He grows stronger the next day, just as Childermass predicted, and is able to get up and get dressed and move about the house with relative ease. Only he is alone. He’d expected Childermass to be there for at least a few days, and the man’s absence is harder to bear than he’d thought it would be. It is beginning to dawn on him that he has made a grave mistake in the wording of his marriage proposal, and indeed, in the wording of his statement that he never again will propose to Childermass, for he wants nothing more than to beg the man to reconsider and agree to be his husband. 

He thinks long and hard about what Childermass said, how he grew up from nothing and worked his fingers to the bone to ensure his own survival. He begins to realize that he has gravely insulted the only man he will ever love. 

After only four more days, he can no longer stand to stay in his house alone. Yes, he goes to dinner at the S____’s, but his heart is only half in it, and several times over the course of the evening, he is asked if he is ill. He tells them he does feel as if he’s not quite himself, having suffered a recent bump to the head, and excuses himself early. The next day, he tells Oscar to pack his things and prepares to return to London. 

The trip on the way back is dreary and dull. He thinks relentlessly of Childermass, of his anger and disappointment in Lascelles. He thinks of what it will be like when he returns to Hanover-square and will be forced to work alongside a man with whom he’d hoped to share his life, and who now will likely not deign to even look at him. 

Lascelles is not an idiot. He knows that his feelings for Childermass were, only a few weeks ago, entirely of a different nature. That he’d loathed the man...or at least he’d thought he’d loathed him. And that now that his feelings have changed, grown softer and more ardent, that he cannot expect an immediate turn around. He’d been seduced by the pleasant conversation he’d had with Childermass while he’d lain, convalescing in his bed the other day. Had felt the warmth of camaraderie and had let it turn him into a babbling fool. 

He will be patient, he decides. Patient and polite and helpful. And he’ll wait until Childermass comes back around. 

Patience is not one of Lascelles’ most liberally applied qualities. He likes to quickly and efficiently be given what he wants, when he wants it. And he has enough money and influence that this has never before been much of a barrier to his desires. But now that he desires Childermass, he realizes that he will have to be far more patient and wait far longer than he ever has previously. 

And what if Childermass never forgives him? He shudders at the thought, and quickly puts that idea out of his mind. He cannot bear to think of a life spent without the other man at his side. How cold and lonely. How sad and desolate his life would be then? He thinks of tales he’s heard of people who spurned or were spurned by their soulmates (a rare situation thankfully), and how they suffer with a lifelong sort of ennui. 

He knows that it is a distinct possibility that Childermass will never forgive him. This knowledge sits, like a wet sack of washing in the middle of his chest, weighing him down with sadness and regret. 

By the time he arrives at his Bruton-street house, he is quite distraught. He settles back in, asks (rather more politely than usual) that Oscar unpack his things and build up fires in the hearths. He takes his dinner in his rooms, drinks only a glass or two of sherry and crawls into bed early. 

The next day, he goes to Hanover-square. There is work to be done, and even if Childermass hates the sight of him, he cannot shirk his responsibilities and hide in his bedroom for the rest of the year. He sees Childermass upon arriving, and true to his word, the man is polite. Polite but cold. 

Norrell however is overjoyed to see him again.

“Mr. Lascelles! I am so happy that you’ve returned! I received word that you’d be coming home early, and though I know you needed some time away from London, I do confess that I am glad you’ve decided to cut your trip short. Are you well? Childermass told me that you had fallen ill.” 

Lascelles shoots a glance at Childermass, only to find him looking down at some papers upon his desk, his face hidden behind the dark curtain of his hair. “Yes sir, there is no need to worry. I had a bit too much wine and fell from my horse and hit my head.” He hears a huff of surprise from the direction of Norrell’s man of business. Perhaps Childermass had assumed that Lascelles would concoct some story to make himself look less a fool in front of Norrell. But Lascelles already feels foolish. Foolish and sad and weak. He cannot sink much further, and so he does not see the point in self serving deceptions.

“Oh my! Well that is unfortunate. Childermass! Why did you not tell me that Mr. Lascelles had hurt himself in such a manner?”

He receives naught but a shrug from Childermass, and quickly turns his attention back to his editor. “Well in any case, I am glad you are back. Now let us get to work!”

Lascelles readily agrees. He throws himself wholeheartedly into his work with Norrell and tries his best not to cast too many sad and longing glances at Childermass’ desk. 

The days go on like this. One after the other. Some days, Lascelles cannot bear to go to Norrell’s, for he is too glum, and cannot stand Childermass’ snubbing. But avoiding Hanover-square brings little relief, and so he usually returns within a day or two. 

One afternoon, Norrell complains (when Childermass is away on some errand) that his man of business is lazy in the execution of his duties. Lascelles knows that this is only because Norrell is in a foul mood that day, and he will criticize anyone when he is thus affected. But he cannot stand to hear Childermass derided in this manner. Especially now that he knows how tireless and dedicated the man is to his work. 

“Your man Childermass is an exemplary employee Mr. Norrell,” he says with feeling. Perhaps a bit too much feeling in hindsight, but he cannot help himself. “You should double what you pay him, for he is worth three times that of any servant I have ever known, in England or on the continent! If you compensate him well, he may not leave you and find employment with someone else. And what's more, apart from myself, he is the only true, steadfast barrier between yourself and a city full of deceitful opportunists who wish to take advantage of you and the power you hold over English magic!” (Lascelles tactfully does not mention that Drawlight is likely at the top of this list of opportunists). 

Norrell is obviously taken aback by the fervent nature of Lascelles’ praise, but rather than argue as he is often prone to do, he looks thoughtful. A week later, he takes Lascelles aside and informs him that he has decided to heed his advice, and has given Childermass double what he paid him before. Lascelles is deeply pleased to hear it. 

It isn’t until several hours later, when he catches himself humming a joyful little tune as he’s driven home from Norrell’s, that he realizes his happiness is only for Childermass’ increased fortune. That it has nothing to do with the possibility that the boon will make Childermass more likely to forgive him. In fact, it is highly unlikely that Norrell mentioned Lascelles at all when informing Childermass of his increase in pay. It’s not like Norrell to give credit to others when he could easily take it for himself. The long list of things Childermass accomplishes for the man in the span of a single day that go unmentioned is a compelling testament to this fact. 

Later that week, he significantly increases the salaries of his footman, his cook, his chamber maid and his steadfast Oscar. He can easily afford it, and he has a new appreciation for the work they do for him now. They are all overjoyed, and no longer have such a somber countenance when he calls upon them for help. He feels their gratitude and the resultant warmth at knowing he has helped improve their situations in life, as a shimmering lightness inside his chest. The feeling only grows brighter when his chambermaid tells him that she can now afford to pay for a doctor to visit her ailing mother and kisses his hands and weeps from gratitude. 

He feels as if he’s been blind for his entire life and now has eyes with which to see the reality of those around him. He gives more liberally to beggars on the street. He donates to the church poor box. He compliments people more freely and with more genuine feeling than he ever has before. As a result, he is even more well liked in the circles in which he moves. 

He is still sad that Childermass and he can not seem to repair the rift between them. The rift that he himself caused. But perhaps, he can live without a soulmate. Perhaps he can satisfy himself with the happiness of friends and acquaintances, rather than by marrying the man he hungers for so ardently? He only wishes that his heart would stop aching so whenever he looks at Childermass, bent over his letters at his desk. 


	6. Chapter 6

Lady R____ is throwing her annual springtime party, and all of London’s most acclaimed, wealthiest and most influential people are invited. This naturally means that Lascelles is invited, and so is Norrell. It is one of the most important social events of the year, and Lascelles does his very best to convince Norrell to go. He weedles, begs, pleads. If Norrell does not attend, people will talk. They’ll wonder why he is not there. And furthermore, if he does not attend, then Lascelles cannot very well brag at being his closest friend. How much more important he will appear if he can be by Norrell’s side for the entire night! How better to further cement his position as a member of London’s elite? And whatsmore, it will be very good for sales of their periodical, and for Norrell’s popularity in general. A thing that Lascelles is almost constantly trying to inflate with limited success. The man is simply not particularly likable. 

Norrell however is a tough nut to crack. He hates parties. And while he has been convinced to attend many a society function over the past several years of their working acquaintance, (has been cajoled into doing so by Lascelles or Drawlight that is) those are dinners with no more than 12 or so attendees. Lady R____’s party on the other hand is a large affair, attended by perhaps four or five times that many people. Norrell cannot stand to be surrounded by crowds, and so Lascelles finds convincing him to be an uphill battle. He calls on Drawlight for support, and the two of them spend an afternoon delicately cajoling and flattering him in an attempt to get him to go. Meanwhile, Childermass rolls his eyes from his desk and says nothing. 

Eventually, when Lascelles and Drawlight have both exhausted their repeated attempts to ignite Norrell’s interest in going, they fall back into their chairs with resigned sighs and give up. Drawlight pouts. Lascelles stares dejectedly into his teacup. 

At this point, Childermass speaks up at last. “You should go sir,” he says. “It will be good for you. To get out and be seen by a wider range of people. T’will help your cause of advancing English magic as well. I thought that was the entire purpose of us moving to London, was it not?”

Norrell appears to seriously consider Childermass’ words. Lascelles looks over at Childermass in surprise and gratitude and their eyes meet and hold for just a moment. There’s a ghost of a smile playing about Childermass’ twisted mouth, and Lascelles feels his heart flutter inside his chest before Childermass looks away again and the moment is gone. 

The night of the party arrives, and to Lascelles’ joy, Norrell had written the day before to say that he will attend. This is very good news for everyone involved, and so Lascelles whistles a bit as he readies himself for the evening’s festivities. He dresses in his very best clothing, in pale green and robin’s egg blue and makes certain his copper hair is coiffed to perfection before donning his coat and descending to the waiting coach. He is giving Drawlight a ride to the R____’s residence, for the other man insists upon going with him. This is not a surprise, as Drawlight often insists on accompanying Lascelles everywhere (because he will likely not be allowed in if Lascelles doesn't accompany him). 

Lascelles is in a good mood, and even compliments Drawlight on his new black suit and silk cravat, watching as the other man blushes and squirms under the rare praise. He realizes that he should be kinder to Drawlight in general. The man is obnoxious, yes, and untrustworthy, but he is also Lascelles’ closest friend, and Lascelles often treats him with barely restrained resentment and condescension. 

The carriage pulls up to the party and Lascelles and Drawlight line up to be announced. It’s a massive house, in the grecian style on the outskirts of one of London’s wealthiest neighborhoods. Men and women, dressed in silks and velvet, bedecked in feathers and jewels, spill out of the front doors and down the steps like exotic birds. Lascelles can hardly contain his excitement. He lives for this sort of affair. Lives to rub elbows with the wealthy and influential, to entertain others with his wit and charm. He and Drawlight wait patiently and are announced and allowed into the large ballroom. Lascelles scans the crowd looking for Norrell, but alas, even though the man is very small and drab and hard to spot in a crowd, Lascelles is certain he cannot see him anywhere. 

He does however see Childermass. The man is standing uncomfortably by a pillar near the entrance to Lady R____’s kitchens. He looks quite out of place, and also beautiful and dark and mysterious in a way that makes Lascelles’ breath catch in his throat. Childermass is a sleek, furtive raven among a crowd of puffed up, clucking pigeons. He hands a piece of paper to a liveried servant, turns and is gone, fading into the shadows inside the hallway leading to the kitchens as if he’d never been there. 

Lascelles makes his way swiftly over to where the servant is carefully sidling through the crowd and detains him with a hand upon his elbow. “I say, good fellow, was that Mr. Norrell’s man you were speaking to?” he asks, though he knows very well that it was.

The servant nods. “He was passing along a note to Lord and Lady R____ on behalf of his master.” he says. 

Lascelles' heart sinks, and he lets the man go with a nod. But rather than walk off, the servant looks over Lascelles’ shoulder and says “Message for you ma’am.” Lascelles turns and sees that the Lord and Lady of the manor are standing behind him, accompanied by a simpering Drawlight, a minister, two shipping magnates and the Duchess of C_____. 

Lady R____ takes the note from her servant, breaks the seal and unfolds it, squinting at the writing upon the page. Then she frowns. Lascelles knows what was written upon the note. That Mr. Norrell is not coming after all. His suspicions are confirmed shortly afterward, when Lady R____ turns to her companions and tells them that Norrell has begged off, saying that he is feeling under the weather.

“Such a shame!” Lascelles says, stepping up to the small crowd. “Why just yesterday, when I was at his house in Hanover-square, he was telling me how much he was looking forward to attending.” 

Lady R____ peers at Lascelles down the length of her nose and sniffs. “Well, that is a pity. Please tell him that myself and Lord R____ pass along our best wishes for his swift recovery.”  That’s it, John. Pick a side. Pick me.

She turns then to her husband. “Did you see that louse ridden pile of rags the man employs to deliver his messages? One would think he had the money to hire a presentable page boy, what with all of his connections.” She’s lowered her voice a little, and speaks behind her feathered fan, but her words are clearly intended to be heard by all who stand nearby, for a titter ripples through the assembled noblemen and ladies. 

“Oh yes!” Pipes up Drawlight, ever hungry to pitch in and bolster the opinions of the wealthy and influential, even when he might have stated the exact opposite opinion moments before in a conversation two rooms over. “I thought him quite the unsettling personage when I first met him. And he  _ is _ rather filthy and uncultured. I have myself told Norrell on many occasions to sack the man. But alas, he seems attached to that smudgy, Yorkshire beast!” More laughter occurs, and Drawlight preens under the positive attention.

Lascelles' blood is boiling. He wants to slap Drawlight, but that is no unusual state of affairs. He’s very surprised to discover that more than slapping Drawlight, a man who virtually begs to be struck for every other thing that leaves his mouth, it is instead the Lady R____ that he is now enraged at. 

“Why doesn’t he hire a more… appropriate assistant?” This from Lord R____. He turns to Lascelles, and perhaps does not see the look of anger painted across his guests’ face, for he continues, a small, mean smile upon his smug lips. “Mr. Lascelles. You are quite close to Mr. Norrell are you not? Why has he not employed a better, cleaner, more appropriate man to help him deliver his messages and so forth? Why send this filthy wretch all about London running his errands for him?”

Lascelles draws himself up to his full height, which is thankfully an inch or two above everyone else in the small gathering. “Mr. Childermass is a servant of exemplary morals and excellent taste,” he says, watching as several of the noblemen and ladies gathered around him falsely assume that he is telling a joke and snicker behind their gloved hands. Lascelles continues, his voice gaining volume and passion as he speaks. “He is honest, hard working, well mannered, well educated and quite clean. And I’ll not hear him spoken ill of! In fact, I hold him in the highest esteem imaginable and feel that Norrell is a wise man for keeping him on. Were he in  _ my _ employ, I would pay him triple what Norrell does!” 

The Lord and Lady R___ are wearing twin expressions of shock, and the other ladies and gentleman nearby have eyes as round as dinner plates and their mouths have fallen open. Drawlight is looking at Lascelles as if he has utterly lost his mind. Lascelles decides it is high time he left, and so he excuses himself, stiffly, in an icy tone of disapproval he hopes is quite clear to all within earshot, and marches off to get his coat, hat and gloves. 

He is so distracted by his pounding heart and dry throat (he has after all just thrown himself upon the sword of social disapproval in the service of defending Childermass) that he doesn’t notice when one of the shadows in the nearby hall by the kitchens detaches itself from the rest and slinks away like a small, silent stormcloud. 


	7. Chapter 7

Lascelles leaves Drawlight at the party. He has no interest in hearing the other man go on and on about the grave faux pas Lascelles has just committed. Drawlight will find his own way home. And furthermore, being abandoned by Lascelles will allow him to join in with his own shocked exclamations over Lascelles’ outburst, and distance himself from Lascelles for the rest of the night. Lascelles is no fool. He knows that Drawlight is only as faithful as his ambitions allow. It is an understanding between them. But perhaps it will change in the future. Lascelles has the feeling that lots of things in his life have changed due to his soul-bond with Childermass. 

He arrives home, and after handing his coat, hat and gloves to his maid, goes straightway to his bedchamber to change out of his finery. He’s taken his jacket off and hung it upon a peg on the wall when he hears a strange noise. It comes from a patch of shadows in the corner by his bed, and sounds very like a shoe scraping against the wooden floorboards. When he turns to look closer, he can see the figure of a man coalesce and step forth from the darkness beyond the reach of the candles’ glow. He yelps in fear and backs up against the wardrobe with a loud rattle.

“Do not be frightened. It is I, Childermass,” says Childermass. And sure enough, Lascelles can now see the man’s dark hair and coat and hat emerging slowly from that patch of shadows in the corner by the bed. 

“Oh!” Lascelles breathes, for at the moment he is quite incapable of saying anything else. A moment later there is a knock upon the door, and Oscar’s urgent voice rings out in the hall. 

“Are you well sir? I heard a loud noise.” 

“I am well, thank you Oscar!” Lascelles calls out, his eyes never leaving Childermass’ face. “The shadows simply gave me a fright.”

“Very well sir,” Lascelles can hear Oscar’s footsteps receding down the hall. He takes a moment, rips his eyes from Childermass’ to go and lock the door. 

When he turns around, he sees that Childermass has now fully separated himself from the shadows and is standing, real as day inside Lascelles’ bedchamber. 

“Good evening sir,” he says, with a small bow of his head. 

“Good evening Childermass,” Lascelles replies, breathless and quite turned about. He is unsure if perhaps he is dreaming. But he is almost certain that if this  _ were _ a dream, Childermass would be wearing far fewer clothing, and would be lying  _ in _ Lascelles bed, rather than standing next to it in his greatcoat and hat. “What are you doing here?” He asks the question gently, wondrously.

“I do not mean to intrude upon your privacy. If you do not wish me to stay, I shall leave you in peace,” Childermass says. 

“No! Please stay! It is no trouble. I was only frightened at your sudden appearance.” Lascelles hopes desperately that Childermass believes him, for nothing would please him more than for the dark man to stay right where he is.

“I heard what you said about me, to those horrid Lords and Ladies at the party tonight,” Childermass says, and Lascelles feels his face flush with embarrassed heat. 

“Oh, that. I perhaps should not have been so fervent, but they said the most awful things about you that aren’t at all true, and so I felt it best...to…” Lascelles trails off as Childermass steps closer. 

“That was very kind of you sir,” Childermass' voice is low and soft, and his eyes are shining like warm onyx in the light of Lascelles’ candelabra. “Also, I’ve heard tell that you’ve been paying your servants far more than you once did.” 

“However did you hear about that?” Lascelles has just enough presence of mind to be curious.

Childermass chuckles. “Do you not gossip with other gentlemen at those high society functions you attend?” He asks with a small one sided grin. “Well, it is the same for servants. You’d be surprised at the things we share with one another.”

“Oh my,” Lascelles will have to revisit that topic later, when the man he has been pining for and lusting over for months is not standing in his bedchamber, looking at him with such fondness in his eyes. 

“I came to say thank you sir.” Childermass has stepped closer still, and now he is barely two feet away. “I myself was given quite a large raise in salary from Norrell recently, and though he did not mention your name, I am quite certain that you were behind that as well.” 

“I...I… you see.” Lascelles is finding it quite difficult to concentrate. Childermass has stepped even closer, so that he can feel the heat of the man’s body, can smell the spicy clove and pipe smoke scent of him. He removes his battered hat and holds it in his hands between them and he is looking at Lascelles in a way that Lascelles may have imagined a thousand times, yet had never quite believed he’d get the chance to witness outside of fantasies and dreams. 

“Thank you,” Childermass says again. “Thank you Mr. Lascelles.” he drops the hand holding his hat to the side and steps even closer. Now their chests are almost brushing, and he is looking very intensely into Lascelles’ eyes. 

Lascelles takes in a long and shuddering breath and lets it out, watches as it gusts through the messy tendrils of Childermass’ hair. “I missed you so very much,” he says. “I’ve thought of nothing but you since the moment we parted at my country house.” 

Childermass’ eyes are intent and hot as they flick between Lascelles eyes and his mouth, back and forth. He looks hungry and soft and rough all at once. “I feel the same,” he says, his voice a low rumble of thunder before a storm. “When I am not with you, I feel as if a piece of me is missing. A piece that aches and burns with your absence.”

“I am ever so sorry that I mistreated you,” Lascelles is breathing quite hard now and his heart is racing like a wild rabbit’s at Childermass nearness, the softness and heat in his eyes. “I should never have said the things I said when I asked for your hand in marriage. I regret that. Deeply.” 

“You are forgiven,” Childermass says, and then he drops his hat. Lascelles hears it strike the ground with a gentle thud, seconds before he feels Childermass’ calloused hands come up to frame his face. “Please, may I kiss you?” he asks. As if such a thing had not been foremost in Lascelles thoughts every minute of every day for quite a long time. 

“Oh please, yes please do,”

Childermass leans in and presses his lips to Lascelles’. They are surprisingly soft, like velvet, like silk. Lascelles lets out a long sigh and leans into the kiss. As he does so, he hears Childermass moan a little, low and helpless in his throat. 

They part for breath a few thrilling moments later. “ _ Henry, _ ” Childermass whispers Lascelles’ secret name into the hot space between their mouths and Lascelles feels it like a flush of liquid fire in his belly. He gasps and his eyes cannot help but slide closed as the sound of his name brushes so softly past Childermass’ lips. 

“Oh  _ John _ ,” he says it like a prayer and hears Childermass moan again in response. And then they are kissing again, softly and sweetly. Lascelles brings his hands up to grasp Chidermass stubbled jaw and Childermass’ strong arms come around Lascelles’ waist and pull him in closer, tighter against his body. And then the kiss is not so soft or so sweet. The movement of their mouths together grows more urgent, rougher, wetter, and without thinking, Lascelles is rubbing himself against Childermass thigh, which has conveniently wedged itself between his legs. Childermass is moaning softly as he licks into Lascelles’ mouth and all between them is heat and friction and barely fulfilled longing. 

To Lascelles incredible disappointment, Childermass soon pulls back, leans away from Lascelles and looks into his eyes. “If you were to propose a second time,” he says, chest heaving and eyes shining with lust. “I would not refuse you.” 

“Marry me, please John, marry me.” Lascelles asks it without hesitation. “I want nothing more than to make you happy for the rest of your days. You are the best of men. The most handsome. The strongest. The most clever. I … I am helpless without you… I...”

Luckily, Childermass cuts off his babbling with a fierce kiss, and so for a little while they return to the blissful state of mouth upon mouth, body pressed against body. Childermass breaks away again, but this time it is to let his eyes play over Lascelles face with a look of deep fondness. He traces the line of Lascelles’ cheekbone with the calloused tip of one finger. “Dear God, you are so beautiful.” he breathes, and Lascelles is certain he must be bright red from the blush that results at hearing those words. “You are like a painting of some gallant knight in the gold embossed margins of some ancient book. You are like fire and silk and rose petals. I’ve wanted you for so very long.” 

Well, there’s nothing to do in response but kiss Childermass again, and so he does. They kiss for a good long while. Eventually, when Lascelles feels Childermass’ fingers tug teasingly at the buttons of his waistcoat, and he finds his own hands attempting to undo Childermass’ neckcloth, he pulls away again, panting, breathless. “Wait,” he says. “Wait. We cannot. We must be married before we indulge in pleasures of the flesh.”

Childermass leans back and gives him a wry look, but Lascelles shakes his head. “Yes, yes, I know. Neither of us are virginal youths. But I have never before been married, and had never thought to meet my soulmate and wish to be bonded for life with him. And so I wish to do this the proper way. To marry you, in a church, before God and a priest and a collection of our friends. I wish to tell the world that I love you and that you are my husband. Then, and only then will I take you to my bed.”

He expects Childermass to mock him, or to disapprove, but he does not. Instead he looks at Lascelles with an expression of strong affection and just a little bit of surprise. “Well, that certainly is a thing I’d never expected anyone to say to me.” He smiles, slow and warm and it makes Lascelles' chest swell with a quiet sort of joy. “So it shall be,” he says, and then he leans in and places one last, chaste kiss to Lascelles lips before stepping out of their shared embrace, taking far too much warmth with him. “I shall take my leave of you now my love, for I fear if I stay, I shall be unable to honor our engagement.”

Lascelles nods regretfully. “Yes, if you stay, I shall not be able to control myself either.” Childermass smiles wickedly at him, and for a brief moment, it feels as if they will press back together and kiss again. But the man only dons his hat, nods briefly to Lascelles and, in two short strides, swiftly melts back into the shadows in the corner. He is gone so quickly that Lascelles again finds himself thinking he might have imagined the whole thing.

He gets into his nightdress and curls up under the covers with a smile upon his face, feeling warm and deeply happy. He does not even indulge in self pleasure, for that was a thing he did when he could not have Childermass, and now, he knows that he can. And the delicious anticipation of such an act makes him not wish to spend his lustful energies with his own hand any longer. He drifts off to sleep, content and at peace for the first time in a long time. 


	8. Chapter 8

The very next day he goes to Hanover-square. He enters the study and immediately steps up to Norrell’s desk. “Mr. Childermass,” he says, turning his head to look at the other man, who looks back at him with a sort of ironic amusement upon his face. “Would you please excuse Mr. Norrell and myself? For I have a matter of great importance to discuss with him.”

“Of course sir,” Childermass nods and gets up, saunters to the door and out without another word.

Norrell looks at Lascelles quizzically. “Yes, Mr. Lascelles, what is it?” He asks, clearly a bit confused. 

Lascelles sees no point in dancing around the subject and charges forward without delay. “It was recently made known to Mr. Childermass and myself, that we share a soul-bond. I have asked for his hand in marriage and he has accepted.” He says. He watches with some satisfaction as Norrell's bushy eyebrows climb nearly all the way to his wig and his mouth falls open. 

“ _ Childermass _ ?” he asks, incredulity plain in his voice. “And yourself?  _ Soulmates _ ?”

“Yes sir. Several months ago his Secret Name revealed itself to me and mine to him. And so yes, we wish to marry, with all haste. I thought it prudent and polite to ask for your blessing, as he is your servant and I am your closest associate.” He sees Norrell frown, and so he hurries to explain further. “He will of course move in with me in Bruton-street, but we shall both be at your disposal in all the same ways as before. I shan’t take him away from your service in any sort of noticeable fashion.” 

Norrell contemplates this for a few moments while Lascelles feels his stomach twist uncomfortably with nerves and struggles to keep from fidgeting. 

“But… I thought you loathed one another,” he says after a long moment. He peers up at Lascelles with narrowed eyes. 

“Well, yes… for a time we certainly seemed to. But that has changed now. Now I find him quite wonderful, and he holds me in an equally affectionate regard. I am hoping sir that you give us your blessing, for while we do not need it, I would feel very poorly going ahead with the marriage if I thought you were made unhappy by our union.”

Norrell frowns for a moment longer, but then a small grin makes its way across his face. “Why Mr. Lascelles. You surprise me! I thought for certain that the two of you were permanently at odds. And now I see that my two most valuable associates wish to marry? Well of course I give my consent! Nothing would make me happier!”

Lascelles feels a rush of relief and lets his shoulders sag from where they had been inching toward his ears. “That is quite good to hear Mr. Norrell! Thank you sir!” He turns toward the door to the study. “I am sure you wish to speak to Childermass in private now as well?” he asks. 

Norrell nods. “Yes please, if you wouldn't' mind. Send him in and give us just a few moments to speak.”

Lascelles leaves the study and beckons for Chilermass, who is leaning against the wall across the way. “He wishes to see you,” he says, grinning like a fool, and Childermass grins back, holding Lascelles eyes with his own in a way that is not at all appropriate for their surroundings, until he passes through the door and shuts it behind him. 

Lascelles cannot help but eve’s drop. He presses his ear to the door of Norrell’s study and hears the low rumble of Childermass’ voice, then the higher tones of Norrell’s voice responding. Then Childermass chuckles. Then Norrell is chuckling as well. Soon, he hears footsteps coming back toward the door and steps back just before it cracks open. Childermass invites him in and the three of them spend some moments discussing the upcoming nuptials. Norrell graciously offers to help pay for the wedding, and Lascelles graciously accepts, for while he does well financially, he is no fool, and knows better than to turn down an offer of money. 

They marry in St. George’s. A simple ceremony that’s nevertheless attended by several of London's elite class (along with Drawlight) sitting on Lascelles’ side, and a fair number of their servants (along with Norrell) who populate Childermass’ side. Childermass has on a new black waistcoat and smart new black jacket and a cream silk cravat. His hair though, cannot be forced to behave, no matter how much Oscar had tried to tame it with a comb. Lascelles is dressed in his robin’s egg blue and pale green finery. They say their vows, loudly and clearly for all to hear, and then kiss in front of the assembled guests, and Lascelles is beyond happy. 

That night, after much drinking and merrymaking at Bruton-street, Lascelles’ sidles up to Childermass and whispers in his ear that he’d very much like to go to bed. It’s late, and the revelers are making their way home. The servants can see to their departure, any that are not guests that is, and so he pulls Childermass upstairs to their bedroom. 

As soon as the door is shut and locked behind them, Childermass is in his arms, kissing him, rough and eager, and they are trying their best to undress each other as quickly as possible. Lascelles is laughing between kisses and Childermass growls as he finally undoes Lascelles’ neckcloth and begins to suckle at Lascelles’ neck.

“ _ Henry, _ ” he whispers against Lascelles now spit damp skin. “Henry, Henry,  _ Henry _ , what a lovely name.” 

Lascelles whimpers at the surges of lust brought up by hearing his Secret Name upon Childermass’ lips, and arches against him. Soon, with much fumbling and many breaks for kisses, they manage to divest each other of their clothing and get beneath the covers. Childermass’ lips are everywhere, against Lascelles’ mouth, against his neck, kissing his cheeks and brow, the tip of his nose. He’s whispering Lascelles Secret Name over and over and Lascelles’ body is tingling and on fire, flames that surge anew with every repetition. 

“Oh God  _ John, _ ” he gasps, and hears Childermass groan in response. “John,” he says it again, boldly, and Childermass whines and thrusts against him, hard and hot and ready. 

“Jesus, I love the sound of my name upon your lips,” Childermass whispers into Lascelles’ ear, his hot breath sending tingles down Lascelles’ spine. “I could hear you say it forever.” He punctuates his words with a slow roll of his pelvis, pressing them together and making Lascelles gasp anew at the maddening friction. 

“John,” Lascelles says teasingly, captures Childermass’ lips in a kiss. “John,” he repeats when their lips break apart again. “ _ John _ , I adore you.”

Childermass rolls them over so that Lascelles is beneath him. Lascelles groans as Childermass’ weight presses him into the mattress. He presses up against Childermass body and feels sparks ignite from where they rub together. “Tell me what you want,” Childermass whispers, gazing down drunkenly in Lascelles’ eyes. “Tell me  _ Henry _ . Tell me how to take you apart.”

Lascelles moans at the sound of his name and swallows, tries to bring his rational mind to bear on the situation at hand. It is so very difficult, what with Childermass’ lithe body, so thick and hot and soft, pressed all down the length of him. “I want you just like this. Kissing you. Moving against you. Just like this,” he says breathless and desperate.

Childermass grins. Then he takes Lascelles hands, interlaces their fingers and pulls Lascelles’ arms above his head, pinning them to the pillows. He begins to move, making achingly slow rolls of his hips against Lascelles, kissing him soft and slow. Lascelles thinks he might go out of his mind with lust. “You’re so beautiful, so lovely,” Childermass is whispering praises into his ear between kisses, saying Lascelles’ Secret Name as he rubs them together over and over. Lascelles bucks beneath him, gasps out Childermass’ Secret Name in response. He feels himself winding up with heat and the tingling, relentless friction between them. He will not last long. Childermass’ rough voice and soft skin and that maddening feel of his’ cock sliding against Lascelles’ will make him reach his pleasure soon. 

“Oh  _ John _ !” he gasps as the unceasing movement of Childermass’ hips brings him closer and closer to his end..

“ _ Henry _ !” Groans Childermass, his thrusts stutter and slow, and then Lascelles is clenching, pulsing, flowing outward in a great rush of pleasure. He hears and feels Childermass stiffen atop his body and cry out his name again and again as he too comes undone. It feels far stronger than any release he has previously experienced. A wrenching, pulling twist of intense pleasure that leaves Lascelles limp and gasping like a wet cloth that’s been wrung out.

They lie together for a long time afterward, panting and warm, stroking hands across each other’s skin and kissing gently. Childermass drives his fingers into Lascelles’ hair and clenches soft fistfuls of it. “I’ve wanted to touch this hair for longer than you can imagine,” he says, kissing Lascelles’ cheek. He strokes his hands down Lascelles’ arms. “I could not stop thinking of these silly long limbs of yours. How they might feel wrapped around me.” He kisses Lascelles’ lips. “This mean, naughty mouth,” he murmurs. “How I wanted to kiss this disapproving mouth so badly.” 

Lascelles grins indulgently, but then grows serious. “I’m sorry I was such a perfectly horrible person,” he says. “I did not know how much I wanted you for a long time. I thought it was anger, resentment. I did not realize how badly I lusted for you for years.” He pauses, looks down and away from Childermass’ soft eyes. “And how I said your Secret Name, in the hallway outside Norrell’s study. I truly am sorry for that.”

“It is alright,” Childermass replies. “I heard your name as well, and also had to hold back from saying it for a long while. You are simply just less patient than I. But I cannot say it was not difficult to refrain. ” He strokes a rough palm down Lascelles’ neck, leans in and places a small kiss to his mouth. “You were so very clever. Sharp like a knife, and your words, your eyes, they cut me so. I thought for certain you loathed me, detested me. Could not ever want me near you. To hear my name come across your lips that day, it was… it was a revelation. And a great relief.” He pauses and smirks a little. “Even if you said it in the most demanding and insulting way possible.”

Lascelles wriggles closer and begins to kiss Childermass right at the place where his neck meets his breastbone, smiles at the sharp intake of breath this causes. “Allow me to apologize,” he says, “ _ John. _ ”

They make love three more times that night. Unbeknownst previously to either of them, the use of one’s Secret Name by one’s soulmate causes near inexhaustible fuel for the flames of lust. And so throughout the night, through kisses and past smiles, in gasps and growls, in whispers, pleas and ragged, broken sobs, over and over, they say each other’s names.


End file.
